1827 Sul Ross #1

Had hardwoods and crown moulding
I thought I could afford. I signed the lease,
sick of driving everything I owned
down every street, a stack of scratched-out Greensheets
like a ledger of the city’s mildewed
studios & flimsy gates, each backyard
bungalow adrift in weeds. In one, new glass
in a window overlooked a sagging fence,
chain-link wrapped with kudzu from the wooded lot
behind. The landlord’s sheepish grin.
Last month someone broke in. He took
a shower, ate some leftovers out of the fridge.
Good thing she wasn’t home. What do you think?
I told the first lie of my rental history:
I’d think about it. On Sul Ross, 1827
sat high above the street, above the flood
that took out half the block last spring. 
The landlord’s wife showed me the ornate scrolls
that made the windows safe. Deadbolts,
front & rear. A church across the street.
The girls across the hall are sweet. Upstairs
we have an Oriental but don’t worry—
she stopped having company. I don’t know why
this closet smells like this—I think
the girl before smoked pot. She was Mexican.
What will you study at the university?
English, I said. My mother studied English.
Did she teach? A laugh. Teach? Honey,
she married money. Her husband owned 
this place. At least this block’s still safe.
The price that one must pay. I moved right in. 
By winter, they’d turned off the heat. 
I could barely pay the rent. Mrs. Pimlott changed
the locks. I moved in with a friend. 
When I walked by in spring the guy next door
wondered where I’d been & had I heard
about the tenant after me?
She’d been raped & beaten in her bed.
Such mercy in regret: that I lived
to tell you my mistakes.